Jaded
by Glorfindel's Girl
Summary: Because grave robbers and addicts are are made, not born. An experimental exploration into a potential past and what makes the Graverobber tick. After all, who doesn't want to read about the early life, times, and childhood of our favorite Zydrate pusher
1. In Which We Meet A Boy and a Girl

**Jaded**

**By SarahFish**

**Chapter 1**

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Her mother was a whore.

But then again, so was his, so what did it matter? At least _his_ mother had been interested enough in him to give him a name. Zebulon. Shortened to Zeb before his she'd died, miserable and disease-ridden, body left to decay behind a dumpster.

_Her_ mother never got around to naming her. None of the other whores took it upon themselves to do so either. He called her Jade. For the color of her eyes. Wide, and pale, and luminous.

At seven years old, he was already adept at caring for himself. Adding Jade wasn't much more trouble. After all, she was already three. She wouldn't have made it that long if she didn't have some survival skills. She became his constant companion, his shadow, always underfoot like a lost puppy.

During the day they would often play in the cemetery. It was quiet sort of place, and, though they did not know it, the safest place they could have been. They spent their daylight hours playing hide-and-seek behind the tombstones, scaling marble angels, learning to read by sounding out names and epithets engraved on the memorials. Sometimes he would gather flowers left by the living and weave them into crowns for Jade's tangled red curls. He figured out how to sneak into the black marble mausoleum overlooking the eastern side of the cemetery, and they began sleeping there at night, curling up together on the bare stone floor. It was comforting to lie down surrounded by family, even if its members were nothing more than bones and dust.

Though they called each other brother and sister, the children knew they weren't. If they seemed to become less aware of this as the years passed, it was perhaps only because their shared identity as orphaned bastards was kinship enough for them.

They survived by picking pockets, Jade acting as lookout or serving as distraction. At four years old, she was a master actress, able to summon tears at will. The sight of the sobbing little girl with the big green eyes and mass of red hair would invariably attract the attention of a passer by long enough for Zeb to slip hands into a coat pocket, lift a wallet, or slide a watch from an unsuspecting wrist. Food was earned in much the same way, Jade having only to stand forlornly on a street corner, crying that she was lost and couldn't find her brother. How often would some grandfatherly figure walk past and take the little girl by the hand, buy her an ice cream or a hot dog from a street vendor, before she was joyfully reunited with her brother. When food wasn't given, they stole, returning at night to their mausoleum to count out the day's haul and ration their meals.

Sometimes Zeb would sneak out while Jade slept and wander the city streets. He loved to talk to people, to observe them, to piece together what made everyone else tick. If he grew bored of it, there was always something to steal. He never failed to return from his secretive night trips without something for his Jadie – a ring slipped from an unsuspecting finger, a chocolate bar snatched from the corner store, tattered books rescued from trashbins – loving to see the delight on her face when he pulled each unexpected treasure from his tattered knapsack like a vagabond magician.

Whenever he was bored or desperate for money, Zeb would sing at graveside services. With organ repossessions legal, there was no shortage of clients. And although he claimed to make his dirges up on the spot, they all seemed to go along the lines of:

"_Your spouse/parent/child was a pretty good guy, too bad he couldn't pay and had to die. They cut his throat, the broke his nose, the slit him open from neck to toes…" _

By the second verse (which usually went something like "_They cut out his eyes and took his balls, unwound his intestines, but that's not all!"_) the mourners were practically stumbling over each other to shove money in his hands just to make him go _away_.

It wasn't an easy life. But it was _their_ life. So what if they weren't always clean, or they were sometimes cold at night, or if they went to bed hungry for days in a row at times? For four years, they managed on their snatch-and-grab existence, fancied themselves, in a way, rulers of their own little kingdom of the dead from their black marble mansion on the hill. It was only in the deep hours of night, when all was quiet and still that Zeb would sometimes remember just how alone they were.

The night the grave robber found them, Zeb was throwing shadow puppets up on the mausoleum walls at Jade's request. She clapped her hands at the rabbit hopping across the flickering orange background, giggled as it turned into a cat, tail swishing in annoyance. Jade threw a butterfly onto the walls, and he turned into a duck which caught and ate it. She laughed, kicking out her feet as Zeb pounced on her, tickling her ribs. Then her foot connected with the candle, knocking it over, throwing them suddenly into darkness. "Now see what you've done, Jadie?" he asked.

"Sorry," she said, not sounding it in the least. Zeb was reaching for the pilfered lighter in his pocket when something slammed against the door to the mausoleum. Jade yelped before Zeb could clap a hand over her mouth, pulling her into a shadowed alcove beneath a crypt.

The door burst inward, and a man strode in, a heavy leather case one hand, a lantern in the other. He whistled a jaunty tune into the darkness, setting his case down beside one of the crypts. He stooped, examining the date (1940 – 2012) on the memorial, before stretching upright and shoving the lid off. A could of dust smelling of decay rose from the open vault as he reached in, dragged out a shriveled corpse and laid it out on the floor. Turning to his leather case, he pulled out a cloth bundle and unrolled it beside him, spreading out an array of tools. When he selected the large-bore syringe and shoved it into the corpse's skull, Jade whimpered, despite Zeb's had clamped tight over her mouth. The grave robber froze, turned, shining his lantern at into their hiding place.

He chuckled. Zeb stood, putting himself between Jadie and the grave robber. "I've heard about you," the grave robber said, turning back to his work. He selected a smaller syringe, slipping it into the corpse's sternum. It began to fill with a dark liquid. "You're the little beast that sings at the funerals. What's the one…. _He shat his pants when they broke his neck, but he was a goner so what the heck?_ That's a good one." He laughed again, emptying the contents of the syringe into a glass vial.

"These amateurs, these days," he continued, slipping the syringe into the elbow joint, "Think that Zydrate is the only thing worth taking. Ahh, but a body is a veritable treasure trove, boy. There's Rotonasin….that's what you make Rapture from, see…in the joints…." He held up the syringe to show him. "Quodite that can be extracted from the bones…" he waved a vial full of powdery stuff in Zeb's direction. "And in some of these corpses, when the conditions are just right…the skin…"he bent low over the body, inhaling deeply. He sighed. "The skin is the perfect host site for Numtar mold spores. You think Ergot poisioning was a beautiful thing…you ain't seen nothing 'til you see a whole family driven insane by Numtar…..Say," he said suddenly, waving at them, "Aren't you a pretty little thing?"

Jadie ducked back behind Zeb, terrified at being addressed. "Aw, don't be shy firefly," the grave robber said. "Pretty little thing like you with those big 'ol green eyes." He chuckled to himself. "So…what about you, little man?" he asked. "Do you talk? I know you can sing…"

"I can talk," Zeb replied.

"Good, good," the grave robber replied. "I was worried I had a singing idiot on my hands, which wouldn't do me a goddamned bit of good. I need someone who can work."

"What?"

"Work! Work, boy. Damn, I thought you weren't an idiot. These hands aren't what they used to be," he held up his gnarled appendages, fingers swollen with arthritis. "Don't do me a damn bit of good when it comes to the details. But you, on the other hand….well on the other hand, you have different fingers. Let me see 'em."

_Dear God, _Zeb thought with slow, dawning horror. _The old bastard's bat-shit crazy. _

The grave robber reached out and grabbed his hand. The move was fast, too fast, and the old man's grip was iron. He turned the boy's hand over in his own. "Too soft," he muttered. "Needs some calluses. But it'll do, it'll do. Whattya say, boy?"

"What do I say to _what_?" he asked. The old man might sound crazy, but there was a terrifying sharpness in his pale blue eyes. A sort of cunning, plotting gleam that was at odds with his nonsensical chatter. The grave robber chuckled, rocking back on his heels. Pulled a syringe out of his leather case, and held it out to Zeb.

"Whattya say to making a little money, kid?"

When he reached out and snatched the syringe from the grave robber's hand, the old man began to laugh. A deep cackle that went on and on, echoing against the marble. And just as quickly as it had begun, it stopped, the grave robber's face grim. He gestured to the body laid out beside him.

"Then let's begin."

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A/N - Don't own anything, not making any money. Just having a little fun. More chapters to come. While any reviews are good, I do appreciate chapter-by-chapter reviews, so I know exactly what people like/don't like, what I can fix and so forth.

Also, as I know people will undoubtedly wonder...why _Zebulon_? Because it's weird. Sure, there's some subtlety at play that'll come to light over the next few chapters. But mostly? It's a weird name, and it fits. I have a hard time placing an American Standard Name on him. I mean, can you imagine the following conversation: "They call me the Grave Robber. But you can call me Steve." Yep. Didn't think so.


	2. Thoughts in the Dark

**Jaded**

**By SarahFish**

**Chapter 2**

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"Zeb…."

"ZEB…"

"**ZEB!"**

He frowned, willed his sluggish eyes to open. He'd been lost somewhere in a dream-forest full of glowing blue trees when Jade's voice pulled him back to consciousness, and the sooner he was able to go back, the better. Now that he was awake, he was aware that his whole body ached, back and shoulders sore from lifting corpses with Cyrus all night. Christ, even his fingers hurt, joints swollen and palms blistered from handling syringe after syringe.

"What?" he asked, pushing himself up onto his elbows. Tried to focus on the redheaded shadow next to his bed. The window behind her was still dark. Thank God for some small favors, at least.

"Can I sleep with you tonight?" she whispered. He sighed, collapsed back onto the mattress, burying his face into his pillow. A feather poked into his cheek. He swatted at it, sending it away from his cheek and up his nose.

"Fucking…shit." He sneezed. "Hate these goddamned _feathers. _Jadie…" he paused, realized he sounded cross. "Jadiebell, it's been six months. Can't you sleep in your own bed yet?"

The mattress sagged as the little girl leaned against it, laying her head on his shoulder. "Please, Z? It's too big in this house. I'm scared," she whispered.

He sighed, rolled over, lifting the quilt for her. "Come on in, I suppose. _Jesus_ your feet are cold," he hissed as she crawled in beside him. She spooned against him, wrapping his arm around her shoulders like a blanket. "We used to live in a graveyard, kiddo. The hell you have to be scared of in here?"

Jadie shrugged. "I just don't like it, s'all." She worried at a strand of hair, winding it around her fingers before putting it into her mouth.

"Hey, don't chew on your hair," Zeb said, smoothing the strand back into place. "Besides, you'll hurt Cyrus' feelings if you talk like that."

"Don't like him, either," she replied.

"Jadie…he could have just as easily left us in the graveyard. But he took us in. At least try to be grateful for that. He makes me damn uncomfortable at times too. Comes with the business, though, I guess."

Jade rolled over to look at her brother. "That's the only reason he did it, though. He wasn't up to the job anymore, so he found someone who was. You're keeping his business afloat, and he's reaping all the credit."

Zeb frowned. He wished he could explain…put into words the exact nature of their business relationship. Sure, he worked himself into exhaustion for the old grave robber. But Cyrus kept a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. He peddled drugs for him, but Zeb was _learning_ from the old man at the same time. He'd learned which chemicals and compounds to blend with raw Zydrate to produce different effects in the user. Hyzapril for euphoria. Tercontin for psychosis. Learned how to hook new customers by giving a high quality hit to first-time users, and keep them coming back often by producing mediocre product for their return visits. Then he remembered that he was trying to rationalize himself to a nine year old who, for all that she'd seen, still had an innocent black-and-white view of the world, and decided to keep his mouth shut.

"You're really getting too old for this," he finally said. "Should be sleeping in your own bed."

"That's what he said too," Jadie murmured, pulling her knees to her chest.

"What?" he asked, not sure he'd heard correctly.

"Cyrus. Told me I was too big to be sleeping with you," she replied.

"Well, maybe he's right," Zeb said, trying to decipher Jade's tone of voice.

"No!" she shouted, startling him as she sat up, throwing the quilt off. "No, you don't understand _anything!_ He…" she sighed, waving her hands in the air, searching for the words. "He…._argh_…never mind." Jade threw herself back down onto the mattress, covering her face with her pillow.

"Wha….Jadie. What's wrong, kiddo?" he asked, touching her arm. She rolled over, turning her back on him.

"Nothing. Nothing's wrong. I just….I have nightmares when I sleep in there. I didn't at first, but I do now. But I don't when I sleep in here with you. You'll keep me safe, though, right? You won't let anything happen to me…" she turned back to him, fear glittering in her eyes, visible even in the semi-darkness.

"Hey, kid," he said, pulling her into a hug. "Anything comes through that door'll have to get through me first. And I don't think it's chances of getting that far are very good."

He lay awake for a long while after Jadie had finally dropped off to sleep. Tried to piece together the different bits of thought floating around his head into a cohesive whole. Failed. Maybe if he closed his eyes, things would make more sense...

The next thing he knew, Cyrus was shaking him awake, scowling down at them.

"Get up," he said, throwing a bag of tools onto the bed. "We have work to do."

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A/N: There's a bit of a viewpoint shift going on here. I'm trying to move more from looking down at GR from the outside to looking out from inside his head. I'm toying with the idea of shifting the viewpoint on the first chapter as well....thoughts? Which do you, the reader, prefer? Omniscient viewpoint, or the more intimate one? Inquiring minds want to know!

Other thoughts....on the ages of the characters...initially I'd intended them to be ten and six when Cyrus took them in, but the more I feel out the characters, the more I think it's too young. In this chapter, they're about 12 and 9....discrepancies and inconsistencies will, of course, be addressed by some future revision....


	3. Harvest

**Jaded**

**By SarahFish**

**Chapter 3  
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"Christ at the rack on that one!"

Zeb winced. The old man was already scrambling down the incline, ankle deep in corpses. "Come on!" he yelled. "She was a hell of a looker once. Still not bad if I say so myself."

"Fucking sick," Jade muttered as Cyrus dropped to his knees next to the body. Zeb nodded. No argument there. The old man flipped the corpse's wrist over, checking the hospital band.

"Just a couple of days old too. Nice and fresh. Come on down!" He began unpacking tools, whistling all the while. Zeb frowned as it turned into a song. "_If ever I would leave you…"_

Jade patted him on the back. "I'll be on lookout," she said. "Or shall I go scope out potential patients?"

"No," Zeb said. "Just…go keep an eye out. This should be the last one of the night. I'll try to speed this along. I'm _coming,_ Cyrus," he yelled, the old man having gone quiet. "Impatient asshole. Not like she's gonna get any more dead."

"Get your ass down here. We got sales to make tonight too."

"Got myself a hot date," he muttered. The slope was steeper than it looked. Had to watch were you stepped in these mass graves. The ripe ones had a tendency to burst if you put a foot down in the wrong place. Then you were stuck with someone's grandmother on the bottom of your shoe all night. Still, he could handle that. Losing your footing and landing face first in some poor bastard's chest cavity was infinitely worse.

The dead girl was naked, spread out on her back, head turned to the side like there was something particularly interesting going on somewhere behind Cyrus. The poorly stitched Y incision bisecting her chest was particularly harsh against her cyanotic flesh. One arm lay above her head, the other, across her breast, as though she was trying to protect her modesty, even in death. Zeb dropped to his knees beside Cyrus.

"What'd I tell you?" Cyrus said. "Hell of a looker."

Zeb shrugged. She looked like a dead kid. He lifted the hand draped across her chest, checked the wrist band. She'd been dead less than 36 hours. She was only 13. _Christ_, Zeb thought, setting her arm down. She was still wearing glittery nail polish.

The old man's hands shook as he assembled the collection syringe, fingers clumsy on the small metal components. On top of the arthritis that had deformed his joints, Cyrus had suddenly developed a palsy, which developed rapidly over the course of a few weeks. Too many years of sampling his own wares. The collection vial slipped through his fingers, clattering to the ground.

"Christ, give me that," Zeb said, snatching up the vial. It had been a long night, and he was tired of catering to the old man's ego. "Before you break another of our tools."

"You say that like I didn't teach you everything you know," Cyrus said, handing over the syringe. "I was managing just fine before I took you on."

"Yeah. Well you're sure as shit not doing so hot now," Zeb replied, nodding at the old man's trembling hands. "Can't hardly write your own fucking name, let alone harvest Zydrate."

He tilted the girl's head back, fingers under her jaw. The needle slipped easily into her sinus cavity, popped as it broke through into her intracranial space. The noise set Zeb's teeth on edge, sent his stomach churning. That fucking sound. Got him every time.

"Coulda just left you were I found you. You and your stuck-up little cunt of a sister."

The tone was dark, dangerous as Zeb cut his gaze up to Cyrus. The old man stared past him to where Jadie where she perched on a monument, arm wrapped around the waist of a marble angel, oblivious to what was going on below.

"Don't you talk about her like that," Zeb said, anger spilling over his skin in fine waves. "Don't you dare." He jerked the now glowing syringe out of the corpse's skull. A small trail of incandescent reside trickled out of its nose.

Cyrus chuckled, taking the glowing vial from Zeb's hand, dark mood passed just like that. "Wouldn't keep you two around if I didn't need you. You've been a dear, sweetheart," he added to the dead girl, "but I'm afraid you're not our type. I'll uh…I'll _call _you some time." He laughed again, clambered to his feet, slung the bag of tools over his shoulder. "Come on. Night's still young. We got valued customers waiting. Firefly! Get going!" Jade jumped down from the monument, picked her way down the slope after them.

Zeb shook his head as Cyrus hobbled off towards the north side of the plot. The old man was falling apart. He was harmless, most of the time, but his moods could turn dark in a heartbeat, then swing back around just as quickly. The unpredictability made him wary, but he wasn't afraid. Not yet, at least. Between his deteriorating condition and growing addictions, Cyrus had become dependent on his help, despite his complaints and thinly-veiled threats. The old man needed him – and he knew it – whether he liked it or not.

His thumb tingled as he wiped the glowing residue from the dead girl's face, realizing too late that he had nicked the finger earlier in the night. There wasn't enough to get him buzzed, not really, just enough to make a warm glow spread through his veins. He closed his eyes, floated in the feeling for a few seconds.

"What happened to her?"

Zeb started back to reality. Jade stood next to him, staring down at the dead girl, expression unreadable. "Who knows?" he replied, climbing to his feet. "Could've been anything."

"They took her organs," she said. Zeb nodded.

"Yeah, but it wasn't a repo job. They stitched her up."

"She's only a few years older than me," Jade murmured.

"Hey, come on kid," Zeb said, putting an arm around her shoulders. "You don't need to see this. Let's go. Cyrus'll get impatient."

"You just gonna leave her like that?"

Zeb sighed. Shrugged out of his coat and draped it over the dead girl's body. It was a thin, cheap thing. He could afford to sacrifice it for Jadie's peace of mind. "Better?" he asked. Jade nodded. "Good. Now come on. We got drugs to sell."

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A/N: There's something about this chapter that bothers me (aside from Cyrus' quasi-necrophiliac tendencies), but I can't quite put my finger on it. But after screwing around with it for the past couple hours, I can't put together anything I'm much happier with. If anyone out there can put their finger on what, exactly, is off with that chapter, input would be appreciated. Then again, maybe I'm just being nitpicky....


	4. Enter The Scarecrow

**Jaded**

**By SarahFish**

**Chapter 4  
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He wished he hadn't left his coat. Sure, it had been thin, but the night was growing colder as it wore on, and his mild Zydrate buzz had worn off hours ago. Not like the dead girl _really_ needed it, anyway. An icy wind whipped through the alley, cutting through his shirt. Even Jadie, with her thick wool coat, was shivering.

"Hey, we're almost done, kiddo," he said, reaching down to brush her hair out of her eyes.

"Can't believe Cyrus left us to finish up the deliveries by ourselves. The hell is this place?" Jadie asked, teeth chattering. She shifted her bag to her other shoulder, huddled close to Zeb's side.

"Right here," he replied, stopping in front of a warehouse door. The oversized metal facing was pockmarked with rust, remnants of old posters still clinging to the frame. Someone had spray painted a white dove in the bottom right-hand corner. It should have been comforting. Instead it was just sinister. Zeb banged on the door, metallic clang echoing in the alley.

After a few seconds of silence, a peephole slid open. "Yes?"

"Just praying for Mercy," he replied. The peephole clattered shut. There was a rattle of chains, and the door groaned open. As he stepped inside, the dark entryway erupted in bright light. He clamped his eyes shut against the sensory assault.

"Hey, it's the delivery boy!" He cracked his eyes open to find a tall woman latching the door back in place. Easily six foot without her three inch boots, with dark hair was slicked back into a high pony tail, she was almost pretty in a severe sort of way. He caught sight of the gun on her hip, decided she was not someone to mess with. Ever.

"Follow me," she said, clapping a hand on his back. "Mercy's with a patient, but you'll at least be in out of the cold. I have a pot of coffee if you want some. Or hot chocolate, if the young lady prefers."

The waiting room was a surprise. Small - almost cozy - with a cluster of oversized sofas lining the walls. The only light came from a cluster of lamps perched on couple endtables, their warm glow a welcome change from the harsh fluorescent in the entryway. Zeb wasn't entirely sure what he'd expected. Something cold, industrial, or perhaps mildly terrifying to match the exterior of the building. Definitely not this. Weren't back alley surgery practices_ supposed_ to be horrifying hell-pits?

On the corner sofa, a man was stretched out, apparently asleep, a cowboy hat covering his face to block out the light. The tote bag on the floor beside him had fallen over, allowing a faint blue glow to radiate out into the room. Zeb picked the sofa the furthest away. Wondered why there was another dealer there. Especially one who, judging by the weak glow emanating from the bag, was peddling such a mediocre product.

The door guard was back, pressing steaming mugs into their hands. "You look like you're about ready to collapse, little one," she said to Jade. The little girl nodded, taking a sip of her hot chocolate. "Curl up, take a nap. I'll get you a blanket. Mercy just stepped back with a patient. She should only be about an hour," she said, the last directed at Zeb.

By the time she had returned with the blanket, Jadie was asleep, curled up with her head in Zeb's lap. The guard tucked the blanket in around her. "So…Zeb, is it?" she asked, sitting down beside him. He nodded. "I've heard _amazing_ things about your product. Mercy's always sworn by Cyrus' stuff…but I understand that you're playing around with things that are….something special."

Zeb shifted uncomfortably. It _was_ true that he'd been playing around with different formulas. Trying different refining procedures, mixing different compounds with the Zydrate to produce unique effects. Some, like the Lonexiel mixture, were wildly successful. That particular concoction produced an odd full-bodied euphoria, during which he felt almost sure that he was, in fact, God. A Universe sized deity, who laughed everything into existence out of an act of pure love and joy.

Others…like Zaivalol…were the stuff of nightmares. His mother's rotting corpse came crawling out of a crack in the wall piece by piece after that one, reassembling itself at the foot of his bed before pulling up a chair to discuss the flaws and fallacies of string theory, and why the whole idea of a Grand Unification Theory was improbable at best.

"Yeah," he said finally. "I've been playing around with a few things."

"So…" the guard said, laying her hand on his arm, "What's a girl have to do to get a sample of that stuff?"

"I…uh…" he stuttered. Forming cohesive thoughts was quite suddenly too much of an effort. "I don't have any on me right now." A lie. 90% of the supply he was delivering to Mercy was of his own craft.

She pursed her lips in a mock frown. Traced a manicured finger over his jawline. "That's a shame…I could make it worth your while…"

"I…I….um…." Sentences! Damn it all, he needed sentences!

The guard laughed, patted his cheek as she stood. "No worries, kid. Just keep me in mind next time." She winked at him as she ducked out of the waiting room, the entryway door slamming shut behind her. Zeb sank back against the sofa, let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"Well that was fucking stupid."

Zeb started, spilling coffee over his hands. _Shit_. He set the mug down, wiping his scalded fingers on his pants. Glared across the room at the man who he'd assumed was asleep. The man was peering out at him from under his hat, laughing.

"Sorry about that kid, didn't mean to scare you." He sat up, set his cowboy hat back on top of his shaggy blonde head. "But god_damn_. You may be a talented little fuck, but you don't know _shit_ about salesmanship. They call me Mawkin," he added.

"Zeb," he replied, nodding at the man. Mawkin grinned back at him.

"I already know who you are. Shit, we _all _know who you are. And you don't know this yet, kid, but I'm….well, I'm your new best friend."

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A/N - Apologies for the minor cliffie. Between being sick and trying to move apartments, it was all I could do to get something posted today. Figured it'd be better to go ahead and post the first half of this chapter since I had it done. More on Thursday or Friday at the latest. Many thanks to all who have reviewed. Glad ya'll are enjoying my stab at exploratory psychology. :-)


	5. Firefly

**Jaded**

**By SarahFish**

**Chapter 4, Part 2**

**_Note - This is, quite literally, the second half of the previous chapter. They're meant to go together as a cohesive whole._  
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For the third time that night, Zeb found himself unable to form a cohesive sentence. For some odd reason, his mind kept looping back to the graveyard – to the dead kid and her glowing nosebleed, to how he'd wiped away the raw Zydrate bare-handed. A mistake, clearly, which must have left him more buzzed than he realized. S_hit_, he thought, stomach giving a nervous jolt, _he was probably **still** high_. Christ, the kid might've had something _wrong _with her, something that was now coursing through his veins, manifested as grammar-related amnesia and hallucinations of drug-peddling cowboys.

_For crying out loud, look at the **coat** the bastard's wearing_, he thought, fighting off the urge to giggle. No one would really wear a leather and fur monstrosity of a coat like that. Not to mention the damn hat. No, he had to be blitzed out of his mind, riding the high of some unknown Zydrate variant. It was the only explanation for the growing weirdness of the night. He couldn't decide whether he should throw out the vials he'd harvested from the kid or sell them at a premium.

Mawkin, however, seemed unfazed by Zeb's existential crisis. "So how old are you anyway, kid? Twelve? Thirteen?" he asked, propping long leg up on the couch.

"Almost thirteen," Zeb replied, mind still racing, though pleased his basic language skills had decided to return. _Is he wearing **boots**__too_? _Surely to God I wouldn't hallucinate something that cliché. _

"Hm," Mawkin said, nodding. "About the same age I was when I got into the business. Course, it wasn't Zydrate that I was pushing back then, and I was a _hell _of a lot better salesman than you. But still…" He shrugged. Picked up the messenger bag that had tipped over at his feet. "Look at this shit," he said, pulling out a dimly glowing Zydrate vial. "Fucking weasel piss. Never been better than average at refining the goddamned stuff, but my clients still come crawling back for more. I tell ya, kid, if I had half the talent you've got in your little finger, I'd've retired from the business twenty years ago and moved myself and my three favorite whores to Texas. You know they still have coastline there? " he asked, waving the vial in Zeb's direction. "Not like this corpse-filled hellbroth we have foaming around here, but real honest-to-God coastline. White sand, waves, seagulls…the whole shebang. Hell, I'd give anything to see it. Well, anything but plan responsibly."

Zeb shook his head, rested his chin on the back of his hand. "This is the weirdest fucking hallucination I've ever had," he said aloud. "I thought being lectured by my dead mother on quantum gravity – which I don't even know anything about, by the way – was bizarre. But this…" he pointed at Mawkin. "This flat-ass beats it."

Mawkin laughed. It was a good laugh – deep, and surprisingly sincere. "Kid," he said, wiping a tear from his face, "You're sober as a nun on Easter Sunday."

"Huh." Zeb said, leaning back against the couch. "I was afraid of that."

The glowing vial disappeared back into the messenger bag. "Back to your sorry excuse for salesmanship, though. Do you even _know_ who she is?" Mawkin asked, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the door. Zeb shook his head. "See, that's your problem right there. Her name's Mia. Used to work for GeneCo as a body guard for the Largos. Blew her knee out chasing down some kid who tried to off the old man a few years back. Opted for early retirement over a GeneCo financed knee replacement, which would've come complete with lifetime contract to the company.

"Now Mercy, the owner of this fine establishment in which we're sitting, is Mia's cousin. So when Mia left GeneCo, she decided to keep things in the family and come play watchdog for her favorite relative's back alley clinic. Doesn't mean she still doesn't maintain ties with GeneCo. She was a damn good employee, and Largo wasn't the only one sad to see her go. So who's to say anything if her current friends and interests tend to fly, well….a little _lower_ on GeneCo's radar than most? She's a _damn_ good connection to have, and you'd be served damn well getting on her good side. Now would it have _killed _you to give her a hit?"

"Well…no, but…"

"You're damn right it wouldn't have," Mawkin interrupted. "Shit, it's not like she wasn't gonna give you _something_ for it. Alternative payment plans are a beautiful thing. Not, of course, that I would expect you to know anything about that. After all, Cyrus was never interested in anything that didn't pad his bottom line. Miserly cradle-robbing bastard. Excuse me. _Talented_ miserly cradle-robbing bastard."

Zeb shook his head. "You know Cyrus?"

"Of course I know him. Fucking _everyone_ knows Cyrus. And by the way, those are the _nicest_ things I can say about him in case you haven't figured that out. The old bastard's talented insomuch as he makes a high-quality product. But he plays it too safe. Peddles to the illegal clinics and back alley surgeons. He'd never _dream _of dealing on a street corner. It's a decent living – consistent, if nothing else. But he's never come _close_ to touching the kind of income I pull in from my _painfully _mediocre Zydrate. And that's because I know how to play the game. It's all about connections. Image. Salesmanship. Making people a deal they can't refuse. I mean, let's face it, kid. You're a pharmaceutical rep. I'm a goddamned rock star. And it's a fucking _waste _of your talent."

A mason jar filled with clear liquid materialized from somewhere inside Mawkin's jacket. "Sip?" he asked, offering it to Zeb. Zeb shook his head. God only knew what was in it. The way the night was heading, it'd probably make him go blind. Mawkin unscrewed the lid, took a deep gulp, then replaced it back somewhere in the depths of his coat.

"Thing is, kid, I don't think you even realize how talented you are. Not that harvesting and refining Zydrate is particularly difficult. Pretty sure, as a matter of fact, that a lobotomized monkey could do it, given the time and inclination. But doing it _well_…now, that's another thing entirely. Now, Cyrus' stuff…back in his glory days, before he got lazy and went, well, crazi_er_…was something to behold. No one had ever seen anything like it when it hit the market. The stuff that we were using back then was good at making your bones melt, but the first time I shot up with some of Cyrus' Z, I fell through the sidewalk into another dimension. Course the fucker wouldn't sell to any of us, but we figured the formula out soon enough…_Your _stuff, on the other hand, blows Cyrus' completely out of the water. You have a knack for it, kid. And I hate to see talent like that go to waste...I wanna help you out."

Zeb frowned. Something wasn't right. "Why do you want to help me?"

"Why, out of the goodness of my heart!" Mawkin exclaimed, clapping a hand over his chest. His eyes glittered under the shade of his hat. "You believe that?"

"Not for a minute."

"Good kid," Mawkin replied. "Had to make sure you weren't naïve on top of everything else." He stretched, popped his back, and picked up his messenger bag. "I need a smoke. Walk with me, talk with me for a second , kid. I'll letcha in on what I'm thinking. Oh, come on," he said, at the look on Zeb's face. "We're going right outside the front door. Mia'll be right there on the other side. Hell, she can even step out into the alleyway with us if you want. Mercy's gonna be at least another half hour…trust me, kid, been here, done this before. Leave your little girlfriend sleeping, and we'll go talk business."

"He's not my boyfriend, he's my brother," Jadie said suddenly, startling both Zeb and Mawkin.

"Jesus, Jadie, I thought you were asleep," Zeb said, looking down at the girl. She pulled her blanket off her face, arched a dark red eyebrow.

"You spilled coffee on me, you asshole. Right after _he _called you fucking stupid. Hard to sleep through that." She sat up, stretching her arms above her head. "Interesting conversation, though. Figured you'd stop if I was awake." She brushed her hair out of her face, leaned back against the arm of the sofa.

"Good God Almighty _Damn_." Mawkin's messenger bag fell to the floor, Zydrate vials rolling across the concrete. He stood there, staring at Jadie, expression nothing short of incredulous. "Jesus _Christ_," he whispered, crossing the room in a three strides. A glass vial crunched under his boot. He took no notice.

"Ho-ly shit," he said, dropping to his knees on the floor in front of Jade. "It's fucking uncanny." He reached a hand out towards her cheek. Jade leaned away, casting a wary glance at Zeb. "No, no, it's okay baby girl," Mawkin said. "Just…lemme look at you a second." He set his hat aside, leaned forward to brush Jade's hair out of her eyes. Up close, Zeb could see deep lines surrounding the man's eyes, hair that from a distance appeared blonde suddenly streaked with more than a little grey. It instantly added at least ten years to his Zeb's initial guess of mid-thirties. For the first time since the older man had spoken, Zeb felt absolutely certain that he was not a hallucination.

Mawkin's eyebrows were knit together as he traced a hesitant finger over Jadie's cheek, tilted her chin up to better catch the lamplight. Steely blue eyes flicked rapidly back and forth as they searched the girl's face for….something….whatever it was, the expression in the older man's eyes was too raw, too _sincere_. Zeb wished the spell would break and that he would go back to being an arrogant asshole. That, he could handle. _This_, whatever this was, was something wholly new to him.

"She looks just like Firefly," Mawkin whispered, almost to himself. Jadie and Zeb both jerked back, surprised.

"That's what…" Jadie began, looking over at Zeb, green eyes full of confusion.

"That's what Cyrus calls her," Zeb finished.

"I can see why," Mawkin murmured, putting his hand on Jadie's cheek again. "Come here just a second longer. It's….God, it's uncanny. She was a…a Zydrate pusher back in the day. Among other things. I mean, she…she was a whore. We were, uh, we were very close. God…you even have her eyes…" He propped his chin in his hand. "How old are you?"

"Almost ten," she replied. Mawkin frowned. Leaned forward again to brush the hair away from her ears. Took her hands in his, turning them over to look at her palms.

"Hm. Not one of mine." The certainty in his voice did not quite reach his eyes. "All right, kid," he said, turning to Zeb. To his dismay, he found the raw emotion – whatever it was – had not left the older man's eyes. "Now I really do need that smoke."

* * *

A/N: Good God, it's the chapter that never ends. This is a prime example of why you shouldn't write intuitively (no outline, just a basic idea of where it's going - let the characters do the rest). Or maybe why you should _only_ write intuitively. When you turn your characters loose to do whatever it is that they want to do....sometimes unexpected things happen. Like Mawkin flat-ass taking over this chapter. It's okay....I've been wondering just who in the hell he is right along with the rest of you ever since he started talking at the end of the last chapter. And the Firefly thing? I was just as surprised as everyone else....


	6. An Offer You Can't Refuse

**Jaded**

**By SarahFish**

**Chapter 5**

**

* * *

**

Outside in the alleyway, a scraggly man was passed out against the building. From his lap, an enormous tabby – or possibly a smallish tiger – looked up at them with slitted orange eyes as the metal door clanged shut. The hand-lettered sign propped up against the guy's leg read "I AM POOR AND MY CAT IS HUGE."

"Wow," Mawkin muttered, squatting down beside him. "That's a really big cat." He scratched the animal's ears, was rewarded with a diesel-engine purr. "How much you think a cat like that weighs?"

Zeb shrugged, wrapping his arms around himself. Christ. He'd forgotten how cold it was out. "Maybe he'll wake up and you can ask him," he replied, nodding at the homeless man.

"Wow," Mawkin said again. He dug around in his coat pockets, came up with a handful of coins, a few bills. He tucked them underneath the orange mass of the animal's body. "For the huge cat," he said. "Thing must be a bitch to feed." The homeless guy just snored. Mawkin sat down beside him, pulled out a cigarette.

"Want one?" he asked, offering the pack to Zeb. He shook his head. "Good kid." A lighter flared to life, the smell of burning tobacco filling the alleyway a few seconds later. Mawkin took a deep drag. Let it out. "Shit, kid," he said, looking up at Zeb. "Don't you have a fucking coat? _Jesus_."

Before Zeb could reply, Mawkin was on his feet, shrugging out of his furry-collared monstrosity. He dug through the pockets, pulled out an assortment of glass vials, bits of string, and wadded scraps of paper. The liquid-filled mason jar appeared again, having been stashed in some inside pocket. "Here," the older man said, holding the coat out to Zeb. "Put it on. It's too fucking cold out here."

Afraid _not_ to comply, Zep slipped into the coat. It was too long on him, the leather hem barely avoiding the ground. But it was heavy and warm, and surprisingly clean.

"Looks good on you," Mawkin said, squatting against the wall. Without the coat, he was whippet thin, all bones and angles. "Be careful with it. It's my favorite one. You have any idea what a coat like that costs?"

"No idea," Zeb replied, leaning against the side of the building.

"Yeah…me neither. I stole the bastard." The smile did not reach his eyes. Mawkin took another drag on his cigarette, stared up at the sky for a long moment. His forehead was deeply creased, jaw tense.

"I'm too old for this shit," he said, finally, turning to look at Zeb again. "You think I really like this Messianic Cowboy Drug Dealer act?"

"I…"

Mawkin cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Trick question, kid. I do. I love it. Or…I did at one time." He sighed, shoulders slumping. "It's the city that I hate. Hate the way it sucks you in and holds you down. I'm so damn tired of fighting it. Tired of it all, really. The drugs, the whores, the business in general. Tired of looking over my shoulder for the law. Tired of watching my friends – my clients – drop off like flies one by one. Bad enough I was born in this shithole. I don't want to die here too."

The older man's tone was soft, the words almost a soliloquy Zeb felt he had no business being privy to. He didn't know how to handle this. Cyrus' sudden and violent mood swings were a familiar thing. But this…this was something else entirely. Gone was the pretense, the bravado Mawkin had thrown about just minutes before, replaced by an honesty of character so raw that Zeb found he could no longer look at him. It was too much. Too open. Too real.

"I want out," he continued, flicking ash from the glowing end of his cigarette. "More than anything in the world I want out."

A long silence, broken only by the crackling sound of burning paper and tobacco as Mawkin took another deep drag.

"Who was she?" Zeb asked, trying to find something, anything to fill the empty space.

"Who, Firefly?" Mawkin raised an eyebrow, glancing sideways at the boy. Went to speak. Paused. "Doesn't matter, kid," he muttered, dropping his gaze to the ground. "She's dead now, anyway. Just another dead whore."

"So's my mother," Zeb offered.

Mawkin stared at him with an expression he could not quite place. "The truth of it, kid," he said finally, "is that she really wasn't anyone special. She was my friend. So I guess that much matters. She ran drugs, she turned tricks. Just another petty criminal trying to carve out a living for herself." His expression softened. "God, she was beautiful, though. And she was my friend," he repeated.

When Mawkin spoke again, his voice was soft, unsteady. "She was the one," he continued, "the one I was going to leave this hellhole with. She'd lived on the coast down south at once upon a time." He grinned. "She used to talk about growing up there…about the shipping ports, the sound of gulls overhead, skinny dipping in the Gulf. About blue waves and white sand. We were going to go there. Leave together…leave it all behind. Course, you can see how well that worked out."

"What happened?"

"Neither of us ever got the money together. Always knew we _could_ if we really wanted to, but never got around to doing it. There was always _one more sale _or _one more trick. _Like a couple of career gamblers waiting to color up because you're so sure your point's gonna show on the next roll of the dice. Next thing you know, you've sevened out and shit out of luck.

"In our case, seven never showed. The dice just went flying off the fucking table." He shook his head. "She was diagnosed with SCAD. Systemic Cellular Autoimmune Disorder. Fuck, it gets anyone who sucks down the air in this place long enough. Hell, I've got it. I'm sure Cyrus does. You'll get it too, kid, if you don't get out of here soon enough. Catch it early, it's easy enough to treat. A few immunosuppressant pills here and there, the right drug cocktails, and you're good to go. Wait too long, and it's a fucking death sentence." He chuckled, dark and humorless. "Two guesses as to which diagnosis she got."

Mawkin sighed, twirling his cigarette between his fingers. "She was already in late Stage III of the disease when she was diagnosed. Stage IV is the final, terminal phase. Your body's been attacking itself unchecked for so long at that point that it literally tears your organs apart. It's..uh…slow. And very painful. They can prolong your life these days with full-system organ transplants. But eventually your body breaks those down too. And eventually it just stops accepting transplants entirely. Course, she couldn't afford anything other than palliative care....neither of us could.

" I uh…..I didn't see her much that last year. Tried to tell myself it was because she was so sick…she didn't need me hovering over her. Really, though, I just couldn't stand to see her like that. It hurt too damn much. Fucking chickenshit coward, that's all I really am," he laughed bitterly. "Of course, there at the end, she was so doped against the pain that she couldn't tell you her own name most days, much less notice that I wasn't there. I heard through mutual contacts that it was her lungs that finally went out. That she drowned in her own blood. Hardly a dignified way to go." He stood, flicked his cigarette to the ground, stubbed it out under his boot. "She never even told me she had a kid," he said, almost as an afterthought. "Had to have been in that last year too, if your sister is as old as she said. I can't even imagine, as sick as she was."

"What makes you so sure that Jade…"

Mawkin shook his head, cutting Zeb off. "It's like seeing a fucking ghost, kid. Believe me. She's Firefly's, no way around it. Not mine, though," he added. "God knows I've probably spawned a few bastards in my time, though I'm usually quick to nip that in the bud, even if I'm _not _sure it's mine…thus the little visit to Miss Mercy Me tonight," he indicated the door with a nod of his head. "No doubt a few have slipped by, though. But she's not one of 'em." The words were deliberately casual, spoken with detached confidence. It was his eyes that betrayed him, though, some pained emotion flickering in their cool blue depths, as though a part of him desperately wished otherwise.

"I'm old, kid," Mawkin said, straightening up a bit. "I may not wear every fucking year etched onto my face like Cyrus, but don't let that fool ya. I'm old…too old to keep up with the business for much longer. Been around too long, seen too much shit. Business needs some new blood anyway, and I'd rather it go to someone with talent. Which is…uh….well, which is where you come in.

"I'll hand you the keys to my little kingdom, Zeb. You're smart. Talented. Too much of both to keep working as a goddamned _pharmaceutical rep _for a bitter old bastard like Cyrus. You can push drugs for him until you drop dead of exhaustion, but you're never gonna see a _dime _from it. Come work with me, though…well…I wasn't exaggerating earlier when I said I was the best dealer in this city. I'll help you build a network. Create you an image. You'll be making more money than you even realized existed. Two years…three years max and you'll be able to take my place as ruling Zydrate king of the back alleys and brothels. On one condition, though."

_Aha, the catch presents itself_, Zeb thought.

"You've got to help me get out of this goddamned city."

Zeb stared, incredulous. "How the fuck am I supposed to do that?"

"I get 75% of the profits on everything you sell…"

"Cyrus would kill me! He'd put Jadie and me both out on the street in a heartbeat. Fuck that, I'd rather keep a roof over our heads, thanks."

Mawkin held out a hand. "Don't interrupt me, kid. What I was going to say is that I get 75% of the profits on everything you sell while running with me. I'm not going to touch whatever you've got worked out with Cyrus. You'll still have a roof over your head, he'll still keep you fed. He never has to know about your little side endeavor. Three years, kid. Three years and I'll be able to retire to Texas with my three favorite whores. Two more years after that, you'll be able to walk out on Cyrus with both middle fingers in the air. Should be worth it just to see the look on the old bastard's face."

Mawkin chuckled, and Zeb was amazed at the upswing in his mood. It wasn't a frantic or dangerous sort of change, not like Cyrus' mood swings. Rather, it was though Mawkin was carefully gathering himself up, putting away raw emotions, and tucking spare bits and ends under a perfect salesman façade. Even aware of what was happening, Zeb had to admit it was damn convincing.

The thought of being free of Cyrus was also very tempting. "When would we start?"

"Tomorrow night," Mawkin replied. "Calm down kid, you don't need to have anything ready yet," he said as a flash of panic crossed Zeb's face. "Just tag along for a week. Watch me. See if this is really what you want to do…just start pulling a few extra vials when you go harvesting with Cyrus later this week. We'll sell shot-by-shot rather than by the vial until you get your supplies built up."

Zeb shuffled his feet. Rolled the notion around in his head a few times, and decided he had nothing to loose. "Sure," he said. "Why the fuck not. It's not like I needed sleep anyway."

Mawkin's face split into a wide grin. "Knew I'd talk you into it!" He exclaimed, clapping a hand against Zeb's back. A gust of wind whipped around the corner, and Zeb shuddered, even under Mawkin's heavy coat.

"God_damn_ it's cold," the older man exclaimed. "Jesus. Get our asses back inside." He pushed off the wall, crossed the alleyway in two short strides to bang on the metal door. "Little pig, little pig, let me in!" he yelled.

The door clanged open, and Mia glared out at them, silhouetted by the bright fluorescent light in the entryway. "Do you _want_ me to kick your ass?"

"Only if you pull my hair and call me your bitch while you do it," Mawkin purred as they walked past her. Mia rolled her eyes, bolting the door shut.

Zeb paused, shrugged out of the heavy coat. "Here," he said, holding it out to Mawkin. "Thanks." The older man frowned at the coat. Looked up at Zeb with an expression he couldn't quite place.

"Keep it, kid," he said finally. "Like I said – looks good on you. Little _long_, but you'll grow into it eventually. But take care of it!" he said, turning to point at him. "After all, it was my favorite one. Now come on…my second favorite whore is due out of surgery any minute. And you've got a delivery to make so you can get to bed." He turned on his heel, and was gone through the door to the waiting room.

Zeb realized he was still holding Mawkin's coat draped over his arm. _Stuck with it now,_ he thought, pulling the coat back on, straightening the massive furry collar. _At least it's warm…_he caught sight of himself in a mirror hanging on the opposite wall and froze. Squinted at his reflection, pulled his long blonde hair away from his face. The effect was eerily familiar.

"Just because it's his coat," he muttered, silencing the little voice that had started to chatter away in the back of his head. "That's all there is to it." He shook his head, sending his hair back into his face to shade blue eyes. "Simple as that."

With that, he turned, and walked back into the waiting room.

* * *

A/N: Credit where credit is due - William and Chet the Huge Cat who appear briefly at the beginning of the chapter are lifted directly from Christopher Moore's novel "You Suck! A Love Story." Not sure what they were doing in the alley here, but there they were. Updates may be a little delayed the next week or so due to my changing shifts at work - from days shift (7 AM - 3 PM) to graveyard (11 PM - 7 AM). (Yep. My sleep cycle loves me right now.) I'm also in the process of moving. Which is the pretty much the last thing you want to do when you're trying to get your days and nights flipped :-)


	7. Thus Saith the Lord

**Jaded**

**by Sarah Fish**

**Chapter 6**

**

* * *

  
**

They returned home to find Cyrus lying unconscious in the hallway.

The old man lay inside the doorway, hands grasping at the long line of carpet before him. He'd fallen on his satchel, crushed God-only-knew-how-many Zydrate vials, then, judging by the glowing snail-trail preceding his feet, dragged himself hand-over-hand across the threshold before his strength finally gave out. Glittering puddles seeped from beneath his body, like shimmering blue blood in the moonlight.

"Huh," was all Zeb could manage. Jade eyed the scene with a mixture of disgust and curiosity, taking a tentative step forward. Zeb put out his hand to stop her. "Watch your step," he warned, "This shit's all over the place."

Glass crunched underfoot as Zeb squatted down beside Cyrus. A quick check of his blue-spattered neck revealed a pulse – faint and slow – and Zeb thought long and hard about just _leaving_ him there. Let the bastard die. But then his _conscience _kicked in. He grabbed the old man's shoulders, rolled him onto his back before he could change his mind again.

"_Shit!_"

Warmth flooded Zeb's hands. Behind him, Jadie screamed, and the world turned onto its side. The floor slid out from beneath feet, and he went down hard onto his hip, heard something tear through his pants. He scooted backward, staggered back to his feet, and ran into the wall, legs refusing to obey his thoughts. "_**Get back**_," he managed, cutting Jadie's cry short.

The front of Cyrus' body was fucking _covered _in Zydrate, the carpeting _soaked _with it. Shards of glass stuck out of the rug in vicious lines of glittering teeth. Jesus. Cyrus hadn't been carrying a satchel with a few vials, he'd been carrying a whole _tray_ of the stuff down to his lab and gone face-down in the middle of it.

_Christ_, Zeb thought, _Dealers __**die**__ from shit like this all the time. _

The room tilted again and he grabbed at the wall as it spun out of reach. Missed. Looked down. Saw glass embedded in the palms of his hands, dark red blood mingling with glowing blue running down his wrists and arms and legs.

His knees buckled.

The floor rushed up in a wave of Zydrate and glass. An imagined nanosecond of pain as the jagged teeth slice through his pants again. Jade screaming his name. Fleeting thoughts of, _"What a stupid way to die." _A wave of warmth, of boneless relaxation.

Then, nothing more.

* * *

Then, agony beyond belief.

He burned. Angry green and white flames consuming his flesh. Lightning shooting through his veins, running from scalp to toes in soul-searing waves of pain. It caressed impossible places. The inside of his eyes. Deepest parts of his ears. The fragile skin beneath his fingernails.

He was dead. And this was hell.

But then…light. Two shadowy figures circling him, speaking in voices he feels in the marrow of his bones.

One of the circling figures sweeps closer, resolves itself into a large dove. She settles on his chest, tiny talons poking into his chest like kitten's claws, her dark feathers oil-slick iridescent. Wherever she touches bare skin, relief flows across his body in cool blue waves. "I have to," the bird coos, dark eyes bottomless and sorrowful.

The second figure descends, and teeth snap the air inches away from the dove as a jackal leaps up beside him. Hackles raised, he circles the dove while she flutters her spun-sugar wings, growling out words low in its throat. "Goddamnit, you're gonna make an addict out of him, just like the old man."

Spun-sugar wings beat up a hurricane, and the jackal yelps. When the storm passes, his muzzle bleeds from a dozen scratches. He snaps at the bird, coming away with a handful of tail feathers which dissolve into cinders as they fall from his teeth.

The dove shrieks. A universe-ending cry of rage and pain. She draws herself back into the shadows, growing into something dark and terrible and beautiful. Zeb wants to cower, to throw himself before her, beg mercy from this long-forgotten goddess who has come upon him in this place. Then she speaks, shattering his lamentations, and the flames cover his flesh again. "Do you want me to save him or not?"

Quaking, the jackal tucks tail and buries its muzzle beneath Zeb's arm. Each brush of fur slicing his skin open. Breath scalding the raw and open places. "He's gonna crash, Mercy…_he's gonna crash_," he whines.

The winged goddess hovers over Zeb, brushing the flames from his body. Her touch, a balm to his blistered flesh. Her words a gentle lullaby. Everything slipping away to leave deepening shadows and a roaring noise like the ocean filling his ears.

Then, from somewhere far above, God spoke. And his voice was that of a jackal.

"Hang on for me, kid. Hang on."

* * *

**Author's Note: **Is this...dear God....could it be? An _update_ after over a year of inactivity? By Pavi Largo's face-clips, I believe it is. This story was never really dead, it was just in hibernation for a while. Here's to continuing the story...more chapters to come...


	8. Shades of Lazarus

Jaded

By Sarah Fish

_Shades of Lazarus _

Nausea tore through his body, dragging him to consciousness. There was just enough time to puzzle over the fragmenting pieces of some weird ass dream about a talking dog before his guts clenched. He gagged, choked, and held onto the metal bed frame for dear life.

Jesus _Christ_ there was nothing _in_ his stomach to lose. The dry heaves continued, so strong he couldn't catch his breath.

"Don't fight it. You'll feel worse if you do."

Not that he had much choice. Zeb got control of himself long enough to see a woman rousing herself from an overstuffed chair in the corner. The dim light threw her into shadowy profile, long kinky curls framing her head like a halo. She shrugged aside the lab coat she'd been using as a blanket revealing mile-long legs, her coffee-with-cream skin dark against a men's shirt. Stretching, she stood and padded across the floor towards the bed.

Between ragged breaths, a name floated up through Zeb's brain. _Mercy? Well mercy me and bless my soul! _Why in the world was the abortionist in his room? Just what in the hell _had_ he been up to? And was that an IV in his arm? He searched his brain for _some _memory of the night before. Nope. No answers there.

"How do you feel?" Mercy asked. Zeb groaned, collapsed back against his pillows. _Everything _hurt. Things he didn't even know could hurt. Like he'd been gang-banged by the great-great-grandaddy of all hangovers. "That good huh? What's the last thing you remember?"

"Um . . . birds. Something about birds." He rasped, throat drier than an old whore's cunt.

Mercy made a non-committal noise that was halfway to a hum. "You've been hallucinating. This is going to be bright." A penlight materialized from the bedside table, white beam blinding as she looked at his eyes. Face nearly nose-to-nose with his as she held open first one eyelid, then another, peering intently into his pupils. "Sorry. I know that hurts," she said, her soft exhalation brushing over his lips. This close he could see a smattering of freckles across her cheekbones, inky flecks of darkness floating over skin the color of fresh-turned earth. "Your retinas look good, though."

She leaned back, rested against the edge of his bed, and smiled. "Do you know what year it is?"

He did, and told her. _Fuck_. His entire field of vision sparkled with remnants of the penlight's assault. Swirling galaxies and circular auras that burst into glittering arrays of stars, constantly staying just outside his direct line of sight.

"Can you count to 99 by threes?" Mercy asked.

Zeb closed his eyes. This was _way_ more difficult than it should have been. The digits danced through his mind, big broad sidewalk chalk numbers drawn in a child's hand. They were there, he knew they were there, could _see _them, but for the life of him couldn't recall their names. A bright purple numeral waved at him, a curvy two-humped fellow to get things rolling. "Three . . . six . . . sseven, no . . . nine . . . "

He made it to forty-two before Mercy cut him off with a wave. "Good enough. We've just started to have this conversation a few times. Think you might make it all the way through this time. Hell, if you're lucky, you might even remember it."

"Wh. . . huh?"

"You've been in and out about five days now. We've talked about it a couple times. Don't worry," she added, holding her hand up, "the amnestic symptoms are completely normal. You should regain _some _memories of the past week over the next few days. But you're probably going to have some lost time."

The flickering lights on the IV stand strobed against the slow moving ceiling fan. It stabbed straight into his brain, turning his skull to a red-hot pincushion of pain. What the hell was _wrong_ with him? He clamped his eyes shut against the visual assault, covered his face with his hands. This was bad. This was _so_ bad.

"You had a mass overdose," Mercy said. "The amnesia, the nausea, the light sensitivity are all normal. You might have some permanent vision loss, but I wouldn't worry. Like I said, your retinas look good."

Mercy continued on, but Zeb's brain wandered elsewhere. His thoughts were thick and foggy, the whole thinking process snail-in-molasses slow. He reached out to bat away the haze, and caught sight of tiger-striped fur through the mist.

"I am poor and my cat is huge."

Mercy stopped mid-sentence. Shook her head and laughed. ". . . Or maybe you're not totally back yet."

"No," Zeb protested, struggling to form the words. "That's what the guy's sign said. In the alley. Right when Mawkin gave . . . gave me his coat." His throat was parched, and cold sweat plastered the sheets to his back. Something important was scratching around the remembery portion of his brain. A naked dead girl with big tits. Cyrus snarling at him, _Coulda just left you were I found you. _Just . . . left . . . Jesus, it was right there...right on the edge of memory. He'd been so _angry_. The old bastard acted like he ran the show, and he was so fucked up that he couldn't even write his own name anymore and he should have...he should. . . ". . . should have just left him there," Zeb muttered. "Left him there to die."

The pieces fell together in crystalline shards of Zydrate and glass.

"Shit. . . JADIE," he choked, struggling out of the sheets, legs buckling under him as he tried to get to his feet. He grabbed at the IV stand without thinking and took it down with him. It slammed against the floor, pale blue and faintly luminous IV bag bursting beneath its weight. Somehow he'd managed to get wrapped up in the goddamned _tubing_ and the combined force of his fall and the stand's demise ripped the needle from his arm. Bright red arterial blood spurted from the wound. By now there were all kinds of alarms beeping, lights in four different colours flashing in time with the digital shrieks.

Mercy clamped gauze down on his gushing wound, coagulant-treated bandages stemming the flow of blood almost instantly. It hurt like a motherfucker. She managed to maneuver him back into bed, shut off the alarms, right the IV stand, and hang a new bag before he could really process anything further than _pain_. White hot, soul raping _pain._

The bee-sting stick of the IV needle brought relief in pure blue waves. A wash of euphoria that tickled the inside of his skull. For a split second, the world hovered in perfect focus. His mind shattered into a thousand rainbow-coloured shards, swirling and shimmering in a dazzling array of light. Laughter splashed over them in electric blue rain.

He felt good . . . better than good. It was a clear, pure high - the elusive _glow_ that had nothing to do with the drug's luminous nature and everything to do with that sweet edge of enlightenment that drove people to give up _anything _ just for one . . . more . . . hit. Then, just as quickly as it had come over him, the buzz faded, left the world feeling dim and dull.

Beside him, Mercy breathed out a sigh of relief.

"Your sister's fine, kiddo. But you are a fucking _wreck_."

* * *

"It saved your life,' Mercy said, fingering a gash along the hem of the coat. "The leather kept most of the shit from getting to your skin."

Zeb set aside the watery cranberry juice he'd been working on for the past ten minutes, and took the coat from her. The dark leather was stained in large blotches, nicked and torn in a few dozen places. Glass had ripped through the lining in handful of slashes, dug into his skin far enough that his back, legs, and hips were covered in a hundred and sixteen stitches. "I shouldn't be alive," he said finally.

"If you hadn't been wearing that ugly ass coat, you wouldn't be. That was surgical-grade Zydrate you fell into. Most of those ODs end up vegetables. You were only comatose for 72 hours. You have no concept of just how lucky you are. Mawkin seems to think the whole thing - chance meeting, his coat saving your ass, what have you - is some kind of sign from the universe. But then again - Mawkin thinks a lot of weird shit."

"Lucky my ass. Cyrus goes face-down in the stuff and comes out no worse for wear. I come out fucked for the rest of my life. If the universe has any message it's some variation of "Up yours, kid."" Zeb shook his left arm toward her, nodded to the glowing IV tubing running down to the needle taped on the back of his hand. Despite the constant drip feeding into his veins, his skin tingled with the telltale electric-like shock heralding the earliest stages of Zydrate withdrawal. He wanted to claw at his flesh, tear at it until it bled, even though he knew it wouldn't help one damn bit.

"Cyrus is profoundly addicted. He's been using for more years than you and I have been alive combined. Tolerance so high he could drink shots of the stuff straight." She paused as Zeb gave into the urge to scratch, tentatively running his nails along the underside of his arm. "You need me to up your dosage?"

The idea was sensual. _Yes _a part of him wanted to say. _Of course _he wanted more. Wanted to sail along the crystalline edge of the universe, away from the pain, away from everything. Jesus. He was just another _addict_. "Fuck no," he spat. "I'm fine."

"Bullshit you're fine. Don't try to hard ass your way through this," Mercy replied. She leaned over and hit a few buttons on the IV panel. Sweet blue sustenance flowed into his veins, put out the fire smouldering in his blood. "You're physically dependent, Zebulon. Not addicted, _dependent_.This isn't something you can force your way through."

Zeb was caught off-guard when the white-hot anger simmering in his blood turned to despair. The force was damn near physical, slamming into his chest so hard it took his breath. It was too much. Too fucking _much_. Hadn't he always been careful? Hadn't he always been so goddamned paranoid when testing anything out on himself? Where had all that caution gotten him? Just as addicted as a whore, as a _scalpel slut _who'd suck the bolts off a submarine just for the promise of a hit. One stupid accident. And what was his reward? A lifetime of monitoring his blood, of injections, and meticulous calculated doses of whatever drug cocktail would keep his symptoms away for a few more days. It was just too damn much. All he could think about was the ever growing list of _shit_ he had to deal with now.

"I can't do this," he said, covering his face with his shaking hands, words thick with unshed tears. "I can't live like this. You should have just let me _die_." His throat burned, chest ached as he dissolved into strangled sobs The cold sweats were back, his heart pounding against his ribs like a caged bird.

"Stop gasping for air, you're gonna pass out, " Mercy said. "Deep breaths. In . . . two . . three . . . four . . . out . . . two . . . three . . . four." Her fingers kept time on his back in a rhythmic tattoo. After two unsuccessful attempts, Zeb managed to suck in a lungful of air. It _hurt_. Sharp, crushing pains snaking around his chest and up his throat as his lungs expanded. As he held the breath in, though, the pain began to dissipate. He exhaled, and found the next breath came easier.

"Zeb," Mercy said. "I'm only gonna tell you this once. There's a hundred percent failure rate for dependents who try to quit without treatment. _A hundred percent_. Not one single patient has ever managed to get themselves functional on their own. It _cannot _be done.

"What just happened to you, right there, was a hallmark withdrawal symptom. Clinical term for it is Crippling Despair, and that's just a taste of what it's like. I'll promise you here and now, you try to lone ranger yourself through this, and the only way out is with a gun in your mouth or a needle in your arm. So _please_. Don't make this any harder than it's already gonna be."

She turned to the IV panel, flat vinyl buttons beeping in soft succession under her fingers. Already the strangling haze was dissipating, loosing its grip on his brain. He took another breath, this one pain-free. "I'm increasing your dosage nice and easy, but you're still gonna have some euphoria."

And just like that, the stinging fire crawling over his skin vanished in a wash of cool blue light. A faint tingle started somewhere behind his eyes, running along the back of his nose to circle his nostrils. He sneezed and shook his head, vaguely aware that Mercy was swearing under her breath beside him. Then he was flying, soaring on a brilliant rush high above the crippling devastation he'd been wrapped in just a few moments before. Instead of fading, it increased, cresting in a wave of pure joy. As he spiraled back down, he realized he was laughing, covering his mouth with his hands, the IV dangerously close to slipping from his arm again.

Zeb was suddenly aware of the dampness in his pajama pants, a tingling ache at the base of his spine and between his legs that was more than a little sexual. He thought at first he'd pissed himself, then realized there was just no such luck. Dust shot up from the pillow as he collapsed back against it, covering his face with his hands, and fighting the blush spreading over his cheeks. Bad enough he'd cried in front of Mercy. Now he'd come in his pants like a confused kid waking up from his first wet dream.

"Hey," Mercy said, and touched the back of his hand with her own. He peeked out between his fingers, saw her standing over him with a clean pair of pants from the hamper. "I'm sorry," he whispered, still humiliated. Mercy shook her head, dropped the pants onto the blanket, and swept her curls back into a bun at the base of her neck.

"Involuntary is involuntary, kiddo. Don't worry about it. It happens all the time." She turned to the nightstand, found a package of baby wipes in the drawer, and handed them to him. "Let's get you cleaned up." When he still didn't respond, she added, "You got nothing I haven't seen, Zebulon, and you sure as hell aren't getting up on your own. Who do you think's been taking care of you all this time?"

Finally, he forced himself to look up at her, and meet her gaze. "You won't tell anyone, will you?" he asked.

"Not a soul," she replied.

As Mercy helped him to his feet, the movement sending small streams of pain from the stitches in his back and legs, it occurred to Zebulon that he believed her. And more than that, he trusted her., though he couldn't say entirely why.

"Why? Why've you been taking care of me?" he asked, as he settled back into bed. Mercy frowned, and tossed his old pants into the laundry basket.

"Who else is gonna do it?" She said it lightly enough, smiling, but her dark eyes were serious. But before he could respond to that, Mercy shook her head, gave his hand a quick squeeze. "Get some sleep, kiddo. Rest while you can."

And with that she was gone. But not before Zebulon noticed the charm dangling from her bracelet, which had touched his hand for a minute. A dove with outstretched wings, tarnished black with time.


	9. Prodigal

Jaded

By Sarah Fish

_Prodigal_

* * *

Mercy was explaining the intricacies of his newly-attached pharmaceutical pump (_It'll keep you on a constant measured dose of Zydrate - no more injections!) _when the door burst inward.

"Zeb! You're awake!"

Jadie took a flying leap from the doorway, landed on the edge of his mattress. Her coat was covered in fine mist, the ends of her hair dripping wet. She threw her arms around his neck, and held so tight that the edges of his vision started going spotty. The scent of the storm-scrubbed city clung to her damp clothes: rain, smog, the soft but ever-present hint of decay.

"We got Vietnamese!" she exclaimed, finally releasing him from her death grip.

"Little help here?" Mawkin yelled from the door, shouldering his way through the door, battered umbrella in one hand, overloaded take-out bags in the other. His overcoat was soaked, Jade and the food having reaped most of the benefits of the umbrella. Mercy took the bags from him, slapped his shoulder when he shook his coat out and splashed her with water.

"Asshole," she said. But the annoyance didn't reach her eyes, a half-smile betraying her amusement.

"Come on baby, gimme some _sugah_!" Mawkin replied, stretching out his arms, threatening her with a bear hug. Mercy ducked out of reach and passed the take-out sacks to Jadie.

A steaming bowl of _phở cay _found its way into Zeb's hands, followed by a small carton overflowing with basil, coriander, green onions, bean sprouts, and tiny blisteringly hot chilies. Spicy-sweet scent of grilled pork hit the air as his sister opened a container of _cơm tấm, _drizzling it with srirachabefore digging in.

"Hold on, we got drinks here somewhere," Mawkin said, digging through the inner pockets of his coat lining. Although more subdued than the fuzzy-collared beast Zeb was currently wearing, the metal studs and clasps adorning his new floor-length outerwear were far from subtle. Anarchist Prairie Pirate Chic.

Like magic a two-liter of soda appeared from deep in the recesses, followed by a half-gallon of what might have been tea. "Oh shit!" he exclaimed, removing a battered envelope "Here you go kid!" The haphazard toss sent it flying straight into Zeb's basil. Soup seared his mouth as he took a quick gulp from the cardboard container.

"What's this?"

"Your share of last week's profit."

The bills were crisp, rustling from hand to hand as Zeb tore open the envelope and counted out the cash. Jade watched, eyes huge as she mentally added up the numbers along with him.

"This can't be right," he said.

Mawkin looked up from the box of green curry, he'd been inspecting, cheeks already flushed from the spices. ""Yeah it is," he said. "I cleaned out Cyrus' Zydrate stores. And salvaged the rest of the batch you two took a swan dive into. Made a fucking killing."

"You helped yourself to our Zydrate stock?"

Mawkin shrugged, and collapsed onto the threadbare couch next to Mercy.

"Jesus, Cyrus is gonna _kill_ me."

"Fuck him," Mawkin said around a mouthful of food. "Not like the old bastard's in any shape to do anything about it."

For a second, they ate in silence, Mawkin taking a long pull straight from the container of tea. Then he stood, wandered over to the bed, and sat down next to Zeb and Jade. "Look, kid," he said, as he gathered up the bills and replaced them in the envelope. "Don't you make the mistake of thinking you owe that fucker _anything_. You listening to me, Zee? Cyrus is . . . well, he's just fucking _evil_. Don't laugh. That's the only word for 'em. He's an evil bastard, and he'll destroy your life just for shits and giggles. And with the way he manipulates people you'll be thanking him as you go down in flames."

Mawkin slipped the envelope into the inner pocket of Zeb's coat - the one that sat right over his heart. He patted the lapels, straightened out the fuzzy collar. "That's freedom kid. Well, a start to it, at least." He laid his hand over the hidden stash. "You keep that there, where you can feel it. Don't make the same mistakes I did, Zeb. You hold your freedom close, and you get the _hell_ out of here."

"Well, isn't this the portrait of familial bliss! Lazarus arisen, the Prodigal Son returned!"

Jade went stone-still, chopsticks poised halfway between her take-out container and her mouth, eyes fixed on the doorway. Looming out of the darkness, like some Gothic villain given flesh, and bone, and breath, Cyrus staggered over the threshold. Two shuffling steps and he collapsed against the door frame, greasy, matted hair falling over his brows, throwing even more shadows onto his pinched, sunken face. Light flickered across his eyes, gaze burning cold, betraying thoughts keen and calculating. "Little pigs, little pigs, let me come in!" He cocked his head to the side, cracked lips splitting into a grin as he spotted Zeb. "My, my, Goldilocks, have you been eating my porridge?"

"Jesus Christ," Mawkin sighed, rising to his feet, standing between Cyrus and the kids. "Always knew you were off your rocker, old man. But shit, you've gone and jumped right off the deep end this time."

"Execrable son! " Cyrus cackled, pointing a gnarled finger at the younger man. "So to aspire above his brethren, to himself assuming authority usurp'd, from God not given." Somehow the old bastard seemed to _grow_. Engorged on hatred and fury, like some ancient demon stretching shadowed wings that stank of carrion and despair.

"For _fuck's _sake."

The spell broke, Cyrus' momentary illusion of power shattering under the words. The demon fled, leaving a deranged old man tottering unsteadily on his feet. "What?" he whispered. He tried to step towards them, but his knees buckled. The door broke his fall, left him clinging to the frame for balance. "_What?"_

Mawkin shook his head, tossed his hat aside, and raked his hair back. "You just don't give up, do you?" Zeb didn't think he'd meant to say it out loud. "So spake the Fiend," he said, striding slowly, deliberately towards Cyrus, footsteps punctuating each word. "And with necessity, the tyrant's plea, excused his devilish deed."

They stood toe-to-toe, Mawkin towering head and shoulders over him. "See?" Mawkin hissed. "I can quote Milton too, you miserable _fuck_."

The silence stretched between them. Then, the old man snorted, let out a horrible choking sound. And if the madness of the situation wasn't already enough, Zeb realized that Cyrus was _laughing_.

"Tell me," Cyrus said, wiping at mirthful tears. "Isn't the little one _just_ the spitting image of her mother?"

"Oh _fuck _you," Mawkin snapped. The swing caught Cyrus blindside, fist connecting to his jaw with a thick, meaty crack. He teetered for a second, and Zeb swore he could see a glimmer of some bleak victory in the old bastard's eyes before his face went slack and he crumpled. Mawkin exhaled, leaned back against the wall, and slid to the floor. Bruises blossomed over his knuckles like spilled ink. "_Cocksucker_," he spat.

"Jesus Christ, Mawkin," Mercy said, throwing her take-out box aside. "Last thing I need is him dead and you nursing a broken hand. You of all people should know how hard it is to move him alone." She crossed the room, shaking her head at Mawkin's quasi-prone form, and checked Cyrus' pulse. For a moment her shoulders rose, head tilted, listening with some faint hope. Her head dropped, whole body sagging with the revelation. "Fuck." she muttered. "_Fuck._ This son of a bitch is still ticking."

"Yeah, well," Mawkin replied, "Maybe I knocked some sense into him." He shook his hand out, winced as he pushed himself to his feet.

"Way this shit is going, you're just as likely to have knocked more loose."

"Oh Christ, Merce. Don't even joke about that." He stooped and hooked his arms under the old man's shoulders. "Let's get this piece of shit out of here."

The soup was still warm against Zeb's lap, steam spiraling up from the broth and swirling in the breeze coming through the open window. Mercy and Mawkin shuffled out the door, Cyrus' limp form carried between them. The wooden stairs creaked and groaned in protest at their combined weight, Mawkin's muttered obscenities punctuating their progress the whole way. Hearing the downstairs bedroom door slam, Zeb let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and Jadie finally realized her white-knuckled grip on his arm.

"_The fuck?"_ she whispered, glancing up at her brother. Zeb shrugged, and took another sip of his soup.

"Who the hell knows," he replied. "Eat your food, Jadiebell, it's gonna get cold."

* * *

_That's right - TWO chapters for the price of one. I figure if I'm going more than a year between updates, I might as well make it worth it when I do update. Cheers, SF._


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